Conscience of A Tailor
by two.cardassians
Summary: The truth about the Opun Massacre begins to come to light, threatening the possibility of peace between Cardassia and Bajor. Garak and another Obsidian Order operative Nilia, need to decide to tell the truth or sabotage Bajor's efforts to find the truth.


**Chapter One**

Needles and fabric. A rhythmic dance that flowed so beautifully. It took a tailor to appreciate it, this intimate joining between thread and cloth. Sometimes he counted them, it seemed the thing to do at times, to occupy the mind. Or he would listen to an audio recording of a book. Music. An opera or a Cardassian suspense novel. Sadly, all his novels were older. Exile meant he had no access to the newer literature, unless he could strike a deal with Quark. Which was easy enough, when one had the latinum. Business was never booming. Not like business at Quark's anyway. This was a clothier, after all. Noise and robust excitement were not part of the atmosphere.

Sometimes he could use a little be more excitement…

A gray-blue eye peered diligently through his tailor eye piece, getting an enlarged view of the pointed needle and fabric. Dashed marked showing a straight line. Today he wasn't counting. Instead, he was thinking about what day it was. His birthday. Another year older and living in damnation. Death would have been a most precious mercy. Except in truth, he had ever intent to live. There was much for him to do, just because he was a tailor, didn't mean his true talents were lost.

Behind him the door to his shop opened. Knowing full well there was a person behind him, Garak simply couldn't tear his eyes away from his work. So close to being finished he just needed a few extra seconds.

"A moment, if you will." The needle dipped in and out.

"Alright. I can wait." Kira stared at his hunched form, then looked around the shop. She had only stepped in a handful of times. Never quite feeling comfortable around their Cardassian exile, though she couldn't specifically say why. Maybe just an old habit of being unable to trust Cardassians. No matter how friendly they seem.

He gasped lightly, softly. Setting down the needle immediately, the tailor turned in his chair to stare at the beautiful - and hot tempered - first officer of Deep Space Nine. "Major! I had no idea…Why, come in, come in! Do make yourself comfortable. Is there something you are specifically seeking that I may help you with?"

"Uh…Not really." She forced a smile. "I was just browsing…Taking a look at your current Bajoran fashions." Her hands came together, rubbing. Putting on the pretense that she was there for business.

Garak removed the eye piece, observing her. An emblem of the new Bajor. Someone who had been a part of the Resistance and rose in rank. First Officer. Not bad for a woman that had been in a terrorist cell. If anything, she was admirable. One who had beaten the odds, persevered, no survived, to tell of it. His own opinions about the Occupation had always been kept to himself. Mainly because it was easier to live with these people, if he didn't betray his true sentiment about them. Exile had made his perspective a little more broad.

"May I make a suggestion?" His chin went up.

"What?" Kira had been staring at a Cardassian gown. Clearly she wasn't there looking for fashion for herself. Seeing his expression, she sighed and nodded. "Go ahead."

"Perhaps this piece, over here, would be to your liking." Sliding off the stool, he walked over to a flowing, red Bajoran evening gown. "One might say it would catch the eye of a certain Vedic."

Half way over, she gave a short laugh. Looking just a little bit uneasy over the fact he would say that. Garak took full notice and was pleased with himself. Only a small hint of a smile gave him away.

"What could you possibly know about…Wait. You are a spy, aren't you."

"My dear Major, I am nothing more than a tailor with an ear for rumors. You will all come to realize that I am not, as you say, a spy. And I tire of these accusations." Their eyes met, brown hues to blue. Conveying his determination for them to cease their imaginative musings.

She wanted to believe him. They all wanted to believe him but possessed too much commonsense to do so. There were too many occasions where he was just a little too useful. A little too prompt. Everyone suspected there was more to Garak being there, than what met the eye. At this point they just didn't know what. And would only trust him so much. He was getting tired of these interactions, it made his true work so much more difficult.

"Of course." Smiling again in her forced way. "I really like this dress, but…"

"But that's not really the reason why you're here." He supplied readily. Her behavior upon first entering gave him the clear impression this wasn't about clothing business.

Again the Major was startled. How could she have been so transparent? "You're right. It isn't. I came here because…" Looking down, she sought the right words. "I thought you might know something about a Bajoran named Vrino Laeyr."

Garak blinked at that, an indication to show that he was surprised. His impeccable memory dove on the name, and began seeking links and memories. It was a familiar name. Ah…yes. Now he remembered.

"I have never heard of him. I do apologize." Moving away from the mannequin, he wandered back toward his work station. Placing a gray hand on the fabric covering it's surface. Needing distance between them.

Her eyes betrayed the emotional weight of his words. Hands curled into fists as she spun around. "You know who he is, damn it. He was a leader of another Resistance cell. Taken by the Obsidian Order. There is no records of death or survival. I want to know what happened to him."

Ah. Perhaps this was to be an exciting day after all. "I'm sorry Major, I'm not sure I can be of any more help to you."

"But you _worked_ for the Obsidian Order. How can you not know." Kira glared at him intently.

"Worked for…? Major. Come now. I have been through this with Doctor Bashir. I never was a part of the Obsidian Order. You place me at a much higher level than what I'm worth." He knew about Vrino and was sworn to silence. Something she would, of course, not understand even if he was being honest.

A long silence followed.

" _Fine_. I'll get what I want another way." With that, she spun again and stormed out of his store.

Optics lowered. Now that was a story he should be honest about. It tied into a tragic massacre that the Bajorans continued to talk about to this day. However, theses were not his people nor his problem. Whatever reasons Major Kira wanted that information, he decided he wanted to know. She certainly wouldn't find her answers looking anywhere else. After all, he had been the person that interrogated Vrino. And knew precisely what happened to him afterwards. How the information was used to commit the travesty. It had been much easier when he hadn't lived around these people.

Sitting back down, his arms rested on either side of the table while he gazed down at the ornate vest he was sewing. A gold floral pattern mixed with burgundy. Embroidered details that complemented the entire design. Creativity was one of his saving graces. One of the few things that kept his sanity was the fact he was a damn good tailor with an eye for design. He even had to confess there was some satisfaction in his designs. Pride in seeing other people wearing them. No, this wasn't the profession he was born for, but at least it served its purpose.

Securing the eye piece back into place, one more the needle was plucked from its resting place, and lifted. There was a great deal for him to worry about. Lips parted, then closed. If any of them were to find out just what he knew…How his work could be jeopardized This was all the more reason to feel concerned, and dare he say, even a little nervous. Training would permit him from losing control, nonetheless, he knew care would have to be taken. For now, there was little more he could do.

"Computer. I would…play Da'mor. Tracks one through ten." Her music was always comforting to him. Those shivering melodies that could bend the mind to light, dark and into gray. All senses merging. It was music he had listened to when he was younger. Trying to control and train his mind. Her music had always helped him to focus.

"Now then." The needle dipped into the gold satin.

Time never seemed to end on a space station. The way days weave in and out, much like the rhythm of a needle and thread. Endless stitches. His life had gone from one of prestige and power, to simplicity and monotony. There was more to his exile than exile, yet it was one and all the same. He had been trained to be a spy and interrogator. Torture came effortlessly to him. Or at least it once had. Now he found no more perverse enjoyment in it. He was changing. Being around the Bajorans and Starfleet was making him go soft. Fight it as much as he did, there was no denial…on some level…that he had lost his edge. His forced amicable nature was beginning to become a part of his personality. Blending the man he once was into a new man altogether.

Oh he had tried to prevent this from happening. Not socializing as much with the aliens. Keeping his distance, always maintaining a professional level. There was nothing more high class than well executed professionalism. Or so he had been trained. Allowing even the slightest slip could ruin an entire mission. Though he was as pleasant in conversation as any friendly soul, inside he kept himself apart from the others. Except, of course, Doctor Bashir. Dare he even admit he had made a friend with the dashing, young naive Starfleet officer? Friendship was out of bounds. A vulnerability. Yet every lunch he found himself enjoying the Doctor's company even more. Where was the line between friendship and professional behavior then?

He wasn't quite there yet, to be compromised. All was going well, in actuality. Stepping out of Garak's Clothier's, he entered the security code to lock down his shop. Another day of hard work and he still wasn't tired. It was his birthday after all. Though he had no sentiment about such matters, he decided it was a good excuse as any to have a little kanar. Thankfully it had been kept a secret. Otherwise a certain individual would have behaved insufferably at his expense. Garak didn't require a lot of attention. Nor did he enjoy being made a fuss over. He could simply enjoy his evening in his own company. With a Cardassian PADD in hand, he made his way down to Quark's.

Before he even drew close to the bar, he heard the ruckus of people having fun. Gambling their money away on whims of chance or women. It was the second center on Deep Space Nine. The first being the command center, of course. But Quark's was were everyone ended up at some point during the day. Just like himself. Not a frequent customer, but he occasionally submitted himself to the cacophony of entertainment and fun.

Stepping through, he could see Quark was wearing the suit he had tailored for him. The bar keep was opening a bottle when he noticed the lone Cardassian on the station. Their eyes met. Somewhere along the line they formed a degree of understanding and respect for one another upon discovering they were each a useful ally. It was a little disturbing that the Ferengi was one of the few who actually understood him. That was Quark's business though. He sought to know and understand, in order to take advantage of them. Not so with Garak.

"Mr. Garak. Step right this way. What will it be?" The Ferengi set down the bottle. "Let me guess; kanar. You known you are my favorite Cardassian customer. I always keep a bottle just for you." It was known Quark had a large storage of kanar that no one else drank. "Which color; orange, black or blue." All stated before his customer could even sit down.

Garak couldn't help but be bemused. "The orange is my favorite." With a smile, he sat down at a stool.

"Right it is. I knew that. So. What brings you to Quark's tonight? I'm sure it's the bar keeper's wonderful companionship." Hands were moving swiftly, grabbing a glass and fetching the spiral bottle.

"No occasion." He lied. "Simply indulging myself. I do that, from time-to-time, you see."

"Say no more. I know all about it. I make a living on other people's indulgences. Alright. Here you are. Kanar for the handsome Cardassian." It was set on the smooth, clean counter top.

"My thanks." With another smile, he inclined his head. Paid the bill and relocated to a lonesome table in the shadows.

Not quite less noisy, but there was less activity with the potential to distract from reading. This small space allowed him to focus. Setting the kanar aside, he pulled up the page on his PADD and began looking for information on what had provoked Major Kira to visit his shop that morning.

Why Vrino? Why now? Reading the file on the Opun Massacre his ridges lowered slightly with concentration. No one knew the true story behind it. How Vrino had been used to commit the atrocity against his own people. His remains were never found. Because the man was still alive. They had decided it was more torturous to let him live with the knowledge of what he had done, then to kill him. It had been an attempt to make the Bajorans start to fight each other, and had worked briefly.

Reaching for the glass, the cool surface touched his skin. Picking it up, he took a good drink of the thick orange colored liquid. Why no one else enjoyed it, he couldn't fathom.

Then there it was. New information had been found but not leaked to the public. So the new Bajoran Government was on to them. How fascinating. Several years too late. But all people…Bajoran, Cardassian, Human, had a hunger for justice. Even if their moral focus on the truth differed. They all agreed on this point. Justice must always come to the people. And the Bajorans had been a very wronged people. Even Garak had to admit it, though he had been in full support of Cardassia during the Occupation. Morality had never been an issue for him. As he stuck to his own, personal, moral compass. Some might balk at the notion that he could even possess one. After all, it was a very alien one to that which Starfleet purported.

"Dabo!"

His head turned in the direction of the gambling table for only a moment, before returning back to his PADD. Using the stylus, he pulled up the new information. Gray-blue eyes absorbing the information. This would be trouble for Cardassia and the peace treaties he had heard were on the horizon. How had it come to this? Peace with Bajor. His exile. All of it had occurred so suddenly. All at once. In a day his life and career were ruined.

Now here he was a tailor. At least he had chosen a profession with some merit to it. After all, dressing well was an art. It was far preferable than to working here, at the bar, or cooking. Sewing was a methodical process. Something which fit him quite well. The need for routine and order was characteristic to his species. At least being a tailor wouldn't get him killed. Most days, to say the least. There were occasions where Deep Space Nine was in grave peril. That was when he decided to show some of his talents. Not because he was a hero, oh no, but because he had a plan. Being alive was part of it. No matter how much he might hate exile. To live among those that despised him, he never lost sight of his desire to live. At one time to redeem himself. Now?

Now he was improvising.

 **There is evidence that the Cardassians may have played a role in the Opun Massacre. New analysis shows that Vrino Laeyr was taken from the site.**

"Something troubling you, Garak?" A soft English voice asked from above. "You've barely touched your drink."

So absorbed in reading, he failed to notice the approach of the familiar male. His gaze darted from the screen to Julian Bashir's youthful face. "Why Doctor. Imagine, meeting you here."

"Garak, I come here all the time. I should be saying, imagine meeting _you_ here. You rarely ever come to Quark's." Julian stared down at his gray skinned friend a bit baffled. The only time he saw him in this establishment was when they occasionally ate there for lunch.

"I was…simply…" Optics dropped to the glass then rose back to the Doctor. "It's my birthday today" Something needed to be said as a diversion from the topic on his mind.. He knew full well this would derail Bashir entirely.

"Your birthday? Garak. Why didn't you say something?" The tall lanky officer sat down in a chair across from his friend. "I would have gotten you a present. Or-"

"Or told everyone and thrown a surprise party for me? Really, I despise surprises. Especially when they are parties. Please don't make anything of this day. I am merely another year older." Picking up the glass, he raised it toward is friend, before swallowing a good mouthful.

"But that is all the _reason_ to celebrate! With my people, birthdays are very important occasions. We enjoy celebrating them. Will you at least tell me how old you are?" There was hope in his voice. Of course, Julian could hazard a guess from what medical files he had acquired on the occasions when Garak was a patient. Still, he was always fishing for information.

"No Doctor."

Julian sighed, slumping in the chair. "Right. Of course. You're a spy. You can't tell _me_ anything."

"Why, my dear Doctor. You act as if I'm withholding imperative information from you. Let us simply enjoy this evening."

"Well, if you insist. Allow me to buy you another drink at the very least."

"Perhaps another time. It's not in my nature to become intoxicated merely because it's my birthday. Nor do I have any desire to become intoxicated when it's not. You humans and your over indulgence in alcohol baffles me! A mind must always remain keen." Garak lowered his chin, smiling in a way to suggest he remains sober for a very good reason.

"Alright! Fine. Have it _your_ way. Sometimes I think you could use a little intoxication. Then you'd be more willing to talk to me." The Doctor gave his own soft smile.

"Ah. But then you would lose interest in our relationship." His eyes gleamed.

"I'm off to play darts, Garak." This was a losing battle. At times they seem to make headway in their relationship, and then it becomes lost. Nothing about Garak was for certain. Julian truly wished the other man would simply trust him. Rising, Bashir paused. "Happy birthday, my friend." With another smile and nod, the physician strolled off.

That could have gone so much worse. At least any suspicion about him looking into the Opun Massacre case had been avoided. Life was about to get very interesting for him on Deep Space Nine. As he was one of the few Cardassians who knew anything about the Vrino at all.

When the glass of heady liquid had been slowly finished over the course of a few hours, he left the bar and strolled toward his quarters. If his suspicions were correct, another former operative of the Obsidian Order would be paying a visit. She too had been a part of the scheme. They would have much to talk about. He couldn't give away his involvement in this. Either they were going to talk and come to a consensus or one of them was going to die. And it wasn't going to be him.

Pausing in front of the door to his quarters, the tailor stopped and listened. Listened very hard. Opened all his senses to his surroundings. Nothing. After putting in his code, he cautiously entered his humble living quarters. Once more, extended his senses for anything amiss. He had once been gifted in assassinating others. Knowledge of such skills were still not wasted on him, but he had to be sure his quarters were safe. Once everything was secure, he went to the mirror and stared at his reflection.

 _I remember…I know what happened to Vrino Laeyr._

The images flashed through his mind. Yes. That had been a very memorable interrogation. Really, that had been the only role he had played in the entire scheme. Looking down at his hands. Blood stained hands. Yes. He was partially responsible for all those deaths. Just another atrocity attached to a list. These people hadn't the slightest idea as to who, and what, was living among them. Bashir had a glimpse at some of the horrible things he had done. Some of it were only half truths. He had muddled it all with lies to the point where no one knew for certain. But it was clear he possessed a conscience.

Moving to the table, he slowly lowered himself onto a chair. It was odd, how the past could catch up to you after you've forgotten it.


End file.
